Gabby Windey

I don't know.

I don't know.

But it does come together after half a pot of wax.

LFG!

I say to myself, except no, because those letters would never come out of my mind or my mouth.

I trade a Coolpix camera for the night for a bowl of steel cut oats.

I need the perfect digicam for a night I will immediately forget.

Maybe I can post on Instagram so the plebeians will know I'm invited to a chic Hollywood party.

I have to let you know because you only see me in my robe at home.

Ah yes, she can step out like every other favorite influencer who party goes with the famous of them all.

But obviously I don't take one picture and only worry about the camera slipping through my greasy fingers after trying the burger and the french fries and the grilled cheese.

But it's a precious camera for my good friend Liz who found it in her childhood home.

I shall double stick it to my hands.

A camera with a past that could easily

easily disconnect from my perspired palms from deep anxiety.

But as I delicately watch for the camera, I also watch my American spirits.

But luck doesn't follow me then.

As I leave them behind and on retrieval, every last one has been pilfered.

My eyes are on you, philanderers.

Because I know you.